The sacred bridge of a steamer is not going to be profaned by the feet of an uninvited person unless he happens to be the owner or some one of equal importance. Jefferson Arnold and his friends, of course, had the privilege. One of two young men who had been sitting in steamer chairs with Arnold and Nick Carter seemed to have some idea of following them to the bridge. But the elder of the pair shook his head. “It wouldn’t do, Patsy,” he whispered. “Old Captain Southern is a crank about some things, and he looks on his bridge as a sort of private office. Let the chief size it up and tell us afterward.” “I guess we’ll have to, Chick,” was the disgusted response. “But when I’m working on a case I like to see all I can from every angle.” “Regular angleworm, ain’t you, Patsy?” chuckled Chick. “Oh, come off with the laughing-gas stuff! Better send that to the funny papers,” snorted Patsy Garvan. “I’m talking serious business. I tell you there’s more in young Leslie Arnold beating it out of Calcutta this way than people think.” Chickering Carter, principal assistant of Nick Carter, stared for a moment at Patsy Garvan, who was only next in importance to Chick himself on the great detective’s staff--as if trying to get his comrade’s point of view. Then he shook his head, as if he feared there was a great deal in Patsy’s opinion. “What do you think of William Pike?” he asked, as he glanced around to make sure neither Nick Carter or Jefferson Arnold overheard the question. “What do I think?” blurted out Patsy. “I believe he’s the guy responsible for it all. From what I hear, he always was as crooked as a pig’s tail. Leslie Arnold was a good-tempered sort of kid, and it wouldn’t be hard for this slippery Pike to make him do anything.” “And there was nearly a hundred thousand dollars in gold went with one or the other of them,” observed Chick thoughtfully. “If Leslie Arnold went up into the hill country to shoot tigers, he would hardly load himself down with all that money.” “Who believes young Arnold went to shoot tigers?” asked Patsy scornfully. “That’s all Jefferson Arnold has been able to hear about his boy,” was Chick’s answer. “He told that to the chief when he persuaded him to come all this distance to look into the matter.” “Well, I’m glad he came, anyhow,” observed Patsy. “I’ve never seen India before, and it was a good thing he brought us both along. And old Captain, too. Gee! I didn’t think he’d let the good old dog come. But he may be mighty useful before we get through. You never can tell how you may be able to use a trained bloodhound--especially such a good one as ours.” Patsy stopped to pat an immense dog who lay stretched out on the hot deck under the awning, too languid to move, except to let his great eyeballs roll lazily in their sockets in appreciation of Patsy Garvan’s caresses.